Just A Girl
by Sabriel41
Summary: You only have to look at the Medusa straight on to see her. And she's not deadly. She's beautiful, and she's laughing... Shinra, Scarlet, and the devils you know...


**Just A Girl…**

**.**

~*~*~*~

"You only have to look at the Medusa straight on to see her.  And she's not deadly.  She's beautiful, and she's laughing…"

- "The Laugh of the Medusa" – Hélène Cixous

~*~*~*~

They say that poison is a woman's weapon.

I suppose it makes sense – poisoned words, or accusing, acidic glances from one set of eyes to the next, all too willing to cut the other down to gain even a sliver of power for themselves.  Poison is subtle… a rumor, a cutting remark, an 'accidental' shove… and yet it rankles as a clean wound will not.  It chases through your bloodstream; it will not let you go unless you show you are strong enough to destroy not only the injury but the illness left by the venom in the wound.

To stand once again grants you power, but poison leaves its own scars, and you can never return to who you were before it touches you.

I have seen both sides; I have sent wickedly barbed jabs without remorse, and watched as the insipid chits withered and collapsed under the toxins that I spun around them.  But you forget… I have struggled too, against stab wounds and venomous words alike, for women are not the only sex capable of cruelty. Their hands are as red as my own, a fact that they are fully aware of, and nothing on this Planet will rid us of the color… red to complement my nails; red as a reminder of life, of blood, of our own mortality.  

We are nearly gods, we of the playground built in steel and glass, and cemented by the fears and broken dreams of those around us… but we are yet mortal. We bleed. We can die… although rest assured, we will not go quietly.  We have sought our livings by carrying out the wishes of the highest bidder, and we will look for the same before we sell our lives.

And I am still here - I have stood where others have fallen. Though not as young as I once was, time has been enlightening, if not kind.  They forget, they who mock, they who see little more than the outfit, the carefully-styled hair, that for all their words, I have stayed here – _survived_ in a world where few can claim the same.  Perhaps I used what I am to attain this… a pity what it has become; little more than a gilded cage and an impending death sentence, but it is _who_ I am that keeps me here. Perhaps it isn't much, comparatively; a corner office, a spot above the Plate, and a garage packed with exotic convertibles, all at the supposedly high cost of my virtue and my soul.

But I have seen eternity in the hands of a madman, and that experience survived, I am not entirely certain that I would like to go there someday. In _his_ hands, those with the unusually long, artistic fingers that shake slightly when he is angry, the nails short and ripped almost down to the cuticle, even Paradise would wither away within a handful of heartbeats.  I speak unfairly; it is really only our canvases that differ, for we are both artists after a fashion.  We are not so different; he manipulates the lifeblood of men, where I simply play with their hearts…

We all were beautiful, once.  Young, too, although it seems almost impossible to think of some of _them_ like that...

We were, after all, never innocent.

Everything I did, I chose to do. I was never coerced, or manipulated, or – what is that deliciously legal-sounding word girls use nowadays? – _assaulted._ Some of the things I've done would make the very Devil's stomach turn, and I'm not even talking about the men.  Even so, do not call me a victim. Some of the situations that I faced were regrettable, but I am a selfish figure; I will choose the alternative that ensures my survival, in spite of the cost.  

Despite this history, however, it must be noted that Head of Weapons Development is more than a fancy title or a subtle innuendo, and I earned every letter in the name.  Top Honors at a prestigious Wutaian university, and four years of study under a master smith of both the archaic and advanced forms of weaponry out of Junon are achievements that I can claim with more honesty than most things… I bet you never figured me for an Engineering graduate, did you?  Under my embossed lids and darkened lashes, who would notice that my eyes flickered with what I will humbly call no small amount of intelligence?  Don't feel poorly if you failed to observe this; that was the idea, I'm afraid.

You men… all afraid of a little girl.  Or rather, the woman she could become; the woman she _is_.  Even though you are grown, and the reins to the most powerful organization on the Planet are in your hands, you make your silly demands to ensure I 'know my place.' 

And not satisfied to limit your censure and lascivious attention to me, I see you moving towards the little Turk girl.  She might not look like much to resist you, barely more than a wisp, with close-cropped blonde hair and striking hazel eyes, but look closer; her record for bulls-eyes with an automatic is almost as good as the 'legendary' Valentine. A better replacement for that slouch of a redhead I've never seen.  The kid's amusing, but he's reckless; he's a liability in its most dangerous form and one I frankly can't believe you all are allowing to exist.  It was just an eventuality before he ended up knackered and half-broken; I could see that, and I've met him all of ten times. It's a wonder those people let him live. Planet only knows I wouldn't have, were I where they were… but that isn't the issue, is it?

It's a curious chain of hearts to observe from the sideline.  She stands up to your veiled suggestions and rookie jokes well, the little blonde – less fire than might be necessary, but then I was fire, alternately seductive and indignant as it suited me… and it didn't always work, so perhaps the girl is on to something.  That she's moonstruck over the Turk Leader is obvious; a pity and a weakness, but if she were to find herself caring for anyone, he is a relatively wise choice.  It's doubtful he will ever take her up on her starry-eyed adoration, but contrary to what people say, there are far worse fates than that of being an unrequited lover…

Keep standing, little one, and keep working on your aim.  May you never face half of what I had to; may you never have to turn your gun on someone within your company.  But if you do have to… do not hesitate. Your life is worth more than their pleasure. I know what you think of me, and I have done little to assure you otherwise, but if you learn one thing from what you know of me, learn _that._

So I'll wear that ridiculous red dress without complaint because they seem to enjoy painting me with the image of the corporate harlot, but it is nonetheless an illusion that will cost them dearly.  After all, changing a woman's dress does not change her character in the slightest if she does not let it affect her, and if displaying the upper third of my cleavage is all that is required for a twenty percent raise in my salary, then so be it.  But the increase had better be present on my next paycheque, or that will be the last day that dress will see the light of day.  Submissiveness isn't my style, unless there's something sweetening the bargain for me; and for a body that is not unfamiliar to most of them, it is a small sacrifice for a significant payoff…

Don't get me wrong, I _will_ croon 'happy birthday, Mister President' in dulcet tones when it is required… but really, Victor, how did you get this far without looking past the surface of things? A woman's clothing does not mean so much as you think it does, my old friend, and I am disappointed that you seem to be forgetting this.  You're slipping, old man… I've felt you starting to lose your hold on the Company… on sanity… on your very _life_, and I wonder at your condemnations of myself and my intelligence.  For while I may be consumed by the fires of Hades someday for what I have done… rest assured, I will not be alone.

I have, after all, fought those flames before; I have been burned by them with every nauseating task you have given me or innuendo I have sat through, or by surviving the loss of those who I would call family or friends.  My heart, if it were still beating, would, I rather suspect, be broken by now, but the flames that have tested me have served to strengthen it, and though I may seem cold to you, we all have our defences, do we not?  Tested… tortured… measured… and still unbroken.  I admit I'm far from pure, but my being holds yet, much like any of the weapons I have forged…

They say poison is a woman's weapon.  What say they to poisoned steel? 

~*~

fin…

~*~

DISCLAIMER: "The Laugh of the Medusa" belongs to Hélène Cixous and associates. A phenomenal piece of theory, if a little strange…  Conversely, all other characters and settings that you recognize belong to Square/Square Enix.

SABRIEL'S SCRIBBLES:  Hmm… definitely a deviation from my usual style; a little darker, a little more influenced by the work I've done in English over the year. My first plot bunny indulged in _months…_ and no-one is going to read it because it's about an incredibly minor and unpopular character. *sobs* (I know when I played FF7 I hated her almost as much as Hojo… Hojo reigned supreme on the detest-list.)  But still, I always wondered – she WAS the only female exec, and you don't stay an exec by just possessing an incredible body. A secretary, _maybe_.  So I wrote what could be her story – the Cixous actually works quite well as character analysis of the infamous Scarlet…

Hope you found this interesting; thoughts and comments are always appreciated!


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